


path to paradise

by badgersbones



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Multi, but mc's just tipsy, slow burn? maybe, spoilers to chapter 18, use of alcohol, will diverge a bit from there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgersbones/pseuds/badgersbones
Summary: His hand is surprisingly cold in yours as he leads you back to the ballroom, but the oddest warmth curls its way through your veins anyway. | simeon, mc, and more than one fall.
Relationships: Main Character/Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	path to paradise

Only the lowest strains of music from the party are audible as you slip out into the garden, still holding a wine glass delicately against your chest. Normally, you wouldn’t dare wander the Devildom alone, but the palace of the king-to-be is a far cry from the streets of the city, and the person you are now - bound in a pact to five of hell’s highest ranked, without having given anything in return - is certainly not the person you were when they first brought you here eleven months ago. You’ll never be completely safe in hell, but this is the safest position you could probably find yourself in.

That, and you’re tired of being careful.

It’s nice to have a few moments on your own - a few moments to breathe. Diavolo’s birthday party is a roaring success; when you made your quiet escape, Asmo and Satan were in the middle of drinking a trio of lower-ranked demon lords under the table, and the rest of the demon brothers were scattered about the room, chatting or drinking or dancing. The party is, ostensibly, also for  _ you - _ but what you want most in this particular moment is the freedom of the cool night air and the soft scent of the flowers around you. 

Idly, you wonder if Barbatos is the one who tends them. Surely he doesn’t have the time.

You settle comfortably onto a low stone bench, dropping the wine glass gently to the ground. Out here, no one is vying for your attention, and no one is reminding you that in one short month, you’ll be leaving.

It’s peaceful.

No doubt the peace will end soon enough, broken by a brotherly squabble or by Belphegor, who’s been trying to get your attention all night. Maybe it’ll be Diavolo instead, sweeping out here with wings a-flutter, insisting you try this cake or tell him that story of your human life. You adore them all - of course you do - but there are still things about them that make your adoration stick in your throat, things about hell that make it too hard to be honest about how you feel. You don’t belong here, even if a piece of you thinks that you desperately want to. You don’t belong at their sides. They don’t belong in your world, of course; but your world seems desperately dim, after you’ve spent a year here with them. 

“I’m impressed,” a soft voice says, breaking you from your thoughts. “You’re the guest of honor and you’ve still managed to slip out without anyone noticing.”

Simeon stands a few feet away from you, smiling in that not-quite way of his. The white of his robes matches the white of the flowers, you think; you’re more than a little tipsy and it seems quite important, actually, the more you stare at him and mull it over. Simeon isn’t supposed to match anything here, because he’s an angel and this is hell, but he feels as comfortable and at ease as Lucifer in this perpetual dark. He’s supposed to be a little like you, in that he doesn’t really belong. 

You shrug and tear your eyes away from the place where his robes meet his bare shoulders. “I’m not really the guest of honor - that’s Lord Diavolo. It’s his birthday. My part in the party ended after the boys gave me their gifts.”

_ Boys _ \- it does seem a little silly to call them that, when you remember they’re lords of hell, but it seems even sillier to call them anything else when you think about them bickering over breakfast and video games and anything else they can think of. 

“May I sit?” 

When you nod, Simeon takes a seat beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Entirely unbidden, a childhood reminder of the phrase  _ leave space for Jesus  _ rises to your mind - well, it’s a good thing that he’s keeping a comfortable eight inches between you, then.

“I think they intended to throw you a party next month,” he confesses, tipping his head back to gaze up at the sky, speckled with stars and stretching endlessly above you. Maybe it reminds him of home. “But they quickly realized that a party thrown on the eve of you leaving them would have quite a different tone.”

You frown, looking down at your feet. “It - yes. It would. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they went in this direction. It’s just… a lot, I think. I’m leaving soon regardless, and everything that’s happened…”

You fall silent; Simeon doesn’t know what Belphegor has done, and despite your difficult feelings on the matter, you’re not ready to spread that secret around. You’re sure Simeon would keep quiet if you asked him to, but it’s not a burden you want to ask him to bear. It’s not right, and part of you thinks it could be dangerous.

Again, you’re surprised out of your thoughts before they can get too dark - but this time, it’s by Simeon’s hand on the back of yours, a light touch that for a moment you think you’ve imagined. He withdraws his hand when you look at him, your eyes wide, and offers you a smaller smile. Softer. Where most of his smiles are  _ not-quite, _ this one is  _ very much. _

“I won’t pretend to understand,” he says, and you’re surprised by the relief that floods you when he says it. The brothers try to understand; they try to relate. They  _ can’t. _ They don’t have the same frame of reference as you, and that’s never been clearer than it has in recent weeks. The only one here who might be able to understand you is Solomon, and even he is impossibly different.

Simeon continues, folding his hands in his lap. “But if you wish to talk about it, I always have time to listen. I don’t just mean tonight, either - Purgatory Hall is always open to you, and my DDD is always on.”

You smile wanly and dodge the subject. “Your DDD may be always on, but I’ve seen how you text.”

The laugh that bubbles up from him is surprising, but it sends warmth curling through your chest. You’ve definitely heard him laugh before, but you’ve just realized you haven’t heard it enough. You could hear that laugh every single day for the rest of your life and it might still not be enough, actually. Is that the wine, or is that his angelic nature?

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye when he leans a bit closer to you, speaking like he’s keeping a secret in a small room instead of chatting in an empty garden.  _ That _ is certainly not his angelic nature. “Have you seen how it drives Solomon and Luke absolutely mad, too?”

Now, you’re the one laughing. “You do it on  _ purpose?” _

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose at first,” he confesses, a laugh still half-caught in his tone. “I have always been a quick learner, though, and sometimes Luke and Solomon could use a distraction from all the other things they worry about.”

You snort. It is exceptionally undignified, and he blessedly doesn’t point it out. “Are you trying to tell me you test their patience as a favor to them, Solomon? To keep them happy?”

“Of course.” He has the audacity to sound scandalized, although you know it’s not sincere; emboldened by his touch of your hand earlier and possibly also by the wine you drank inside, you gently elbow him. He laughs again, and it’s even  _ better _ than the last time. “I’m quite good at distractions.”

“Oh - you  _ are, _ ” you say, realizing a beat too late that he’s also been distracting you. He must’ve realized you weren’t ready to talk, as kind as his offer was. 

You offer him a small smile of your own - quiet, sincere - before standing and, on a whim, offering him your hand. “I think I’ll take you up on talking about things later, but for now, would you - I mean, we should get back inside before someone notices I snuck off and raises the alarm.” 

You can definitely picture Mammon doing just that. You can  _ definitely _ picture that becoming a massive deal that you definitely don’t want to deal with. 

“Anyway,” you continue, your hand still out for him, “I didn’t get a present from you, so I’m requesting a dance instead. Fair enough?”

“You are not the type of person who cares very much about presents,” Simeon says, but then he’s taking your hand and standing nonetheless. You’re a little surprised: you haven’t touched him once in eleven months, and now he’s holding your hand. It’s as easy as it is with any of the brothers, too; they’re constantly touching you, and this feels just as normal. 

His hand is surprisingly cold in yours as he leads you back to the ballroom, but the oddest warmth curls its way through your veins anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyy i'm trying to write in second person here for once
> 
> #letsimeonsmash
> 
> mc/reader is gender-neutral and i'll try to keep it that way, but mc/reader is not personality-neutral because i'm still writing this with my personal mc in mind
> 
> rating may go up later? warnings for violence may also be added.
> 
> title is a common phrase, but in this instance is drawn specifically from "wait for me (reprise)" from hadestown.
> 
> i'm on tumblr as badgersbones if you'd like to chitchat


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